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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25896238">Orange</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight'>Corvid_Knight</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Demonstuck [69]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Demonstuck, Gen, i don't know wht other tags to put on this, this is just like 3k words of me talking to myself</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:46:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,476</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25896238</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> "You're going to handcuff us," the boy with the orange eyes and the calm voice says, not to you but to the woman still holding you in a grip gone slack enough that you could twist free if you dared move. "Her first, then me. I'm going to cry, and you're going to look at me like you're worried and take us out of here. You're going to convince anyone who asks that this is what you're supposed to be doing, and if you can't convince them you're going to kill them."</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Demonstuck [69]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1003470</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Orange</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Amazingly, you wake up after taking that fist to the face in the street in front of where you were meant to rendezvous with the other hunters. Even more amazingly, the face above you doesn't belong to Thoth or Saint Peter or whoever else is in charge of the afterlife.</p><p>  Well, maybe it does. You guess it'd fit with the kind of jokes you've seen the universe pull to have a child be the one herding ghosts. He's a cute kid, though—pale and freckled, his face framed by feathery hair that's somewhere between that white-blond towheadedness that your sister's daughter went through as a toddler, and the ginger that your own hair would be if you didn't keep dyeing it. Oh, and orange eyes. <i>Really</i> orange, like cantaloupe ice cream. He looks too human for his eyes, honestly.</p><p>  You blink up at him for a couple of times before he frowns and you realize you're staring. Before you can remember how to apologize, he lets out a breath and sits back on his heels. "Okay, cool—you're alive."</p><p>  "That's one way to put it." There's that tickle in the back of your head that says sitting up will hurt, but you do it anyway. You have to close your eyes for a second against both the stab of pain and the vertigo that washes over you—they must have sedated you after knocking you out, by how awful you feel. Bastards. "Where are we?"</p><p>  "Human Defense Brigade detention cell." You're on a mattress laid on the floor, you realize as you open your eyes again; there's a chair against the wall, but the boy just settles back on the floor, shifting to pull his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them with one graceful motion. "You're a hunter—do you know who they are?"</p><p>  "Yes—my group pulled a raid on one of their weapons stores a few months ago." This is retribution, if you had to guess. Now you  <i>really</i> wonder why you're still alive and not spread out in pieces across a safehouse lawn. "What gave me away, though?"</p><p>  He flashes you a smile that's there and gone so quickly you wonder if you really saw it, and uncurls himself for a moment to tap the back of his own neck with one index finger. "Most hunters put the warding tattoos on the back of their necks, unless they like, can't. I like yours, by the way—the green looks nice."</p><p>  "Thanks." That's automatic—the tattoo that grants you a modicum of safety from possession was supposed to match the half-finished vines winding around your waist, but you can't exactly tell a kid that. Not right now, anyway. "So who're you? Don't tell me the HDB recruit this young—"</p><p>  "I mean, they've been trying to use <i>me</i> since I was born, but no." He gives a weird little shrug—you can't quite figure out what's wrong with the motion, but <i>something</i> is—and nods at the door. "They probably wouldn't lock their own people in, anyway. Not one on one when you're bigger than I am. Call me Dave—it's just us in here, that works fine."</p><p>  "Us and the cameras." Because of course there's cameras. If you made an effort, you'd be able to pinpoint probable locations for them, but you don't see the point. Not yet.</p><p>  Dave's already done that, anyway. He nods at one wall, then another; when you follow his eyes you see spots where the paint's been patched, not quite hiding where a tiny lens peeks out. "No audio pickups, though, unless they painted over them, and that kinda defeats the purpose...you do fieldwork, right?"</p><p>  That's a quick change of subject. Like he's fishing for info, maybe... "Depends on what you mean by fieldwork. Why?"</p><p>  "It's harder to get us out if I don't know what they expect." He does that weird little shrug again, rolling to his feet and stepping over to sit on the end of the mattress across from you, fidgeting with his hands in his lap. "Like, they <i>really</i> want to know what I am, and the best way to do that would be to toss me in with someone who's going to try to kill me, but then again they're not going to sacrifice one of their own people for it. Risking <i>you</i> is something else, though."</p><p>  "...right." It seems like weird logic, but he <i>has</i> been awake longer than you have. "And I'm supposed to kill you why, exactly?"</p><p>  "<i>Try</i> to kill me." He grins, for a second. It should be almost angelic and definitely does not come across that way. "The whole point would be for <i>me</i> to be the one who ends up killing <i>you</i>, y'know?"</p><p>  Another thing you're not going to argue, even if part of you really wants to argue the possibility that a preteen could kill a trained hunter. Instead you point out, "I think you're dodging the question."</p><p>  "Oh, I am. A lil' bit, anyway." Dave hums and stretches, eyes closing for a second as his arms reach up over his head. "They still kinda hope hunters are gonna go after anything that's not human, is all. Which is <i>stupid</i>—every year there's more halfbloods with hunter parents around, you've got, like, a ten percent chance of getting an asshole at this point."</p><p>  Well, he's not wrong. "So you're not human, then?"</p><p>  "Eh, not quite."</p><p>  "What are you?"</p><p>  Dave laughs and shifts on the mattress, shaking his head. "Ask me again once we're out of here. You do want to get out, right?"</p><p>  "Yes?" What kind of a question even is that?</p><p>  "Good. Did you tell me your name?"</p><p>  "Call me Maria." It <i>is</i> your name. Well, one of them. You've been going by your middle name since you were sixteen—some hunters swear that that's an effective deterrent to fae and some demons. It probably isn't, but you figure you're better safe than sorry, and the only one who ever cared that you didn't use the one she meant you to is your mother. "Don't tell me you have a plan to escape, kiddo? The HDB isn't exactly bad at keeping people where they want them—"</p><p>  "I know." Dave shrugs and moves to his knees in another one of those unsettling quick motions. "But this isn't a facility. This is like...someone's basement. I could break out on my own, if I wanted, but it'd be hell not getting caught two fucking steps out the door."</p><p>  He's not wrong. "And you have a way to avoid that?"</p><p>  "Ehhh...sort of." He smiles. Then he blinks, and maybe he's still smiling but you don't know about it, because his eyes just changed. Went brighter. Went more—more <i>real</i> than anything in the room, more immediate, almost magnetically charged and there's no way you can look away. Some part of your mind very calmly goes <i>oh, shit, this is bad,</i> but it's nearly disconnected from the rest of you, and you can barely hear it, let alone act on it. "You're going to hit me, Maria. You're angry at me, <i>so</i> angry—you want to make me bleed, you want to kill me—"</p><p>  What? No—</p><p>  —no. He's <i>right</i>. You <i>do</i>.</p><p>  That little reasoning corner of your brain is horrified at the snarl that comes out of your throat as you get your feet under yourself and lunge at the boy kneeling there. The horror gets stronger when you tackle him and shove him down to the floor hard enough that he cries out in pain and shock—human or not this is a <i>kid</i>, what the <i>fuck</i> is wrong with you, you can't hurt a kid—</p><p>  You hit him, knock his head to the side for a second, lose eye contact, and for a second you're just...not angry anymore. There's not really time to process that, though, because he gasps and grabs at your wrists like he's trying to protect himself from another blow and oh, there's those eyes again.</p><p>  "You're still trying to hurt me," Dave says, low and calm and fully at odds with the trickle of blood running down his chin where you've split his lip. "I'm stronger than you—"</p><p>  Which can't possibly be right, but you find that it's true when you try to bring your hands down to wrap around his neck and throttle him.</p><p>  "—but you're still trying. You're going to keep trying until someone comes in. When someone comes in, you're going to get them where they can see my eyes. You're going to—"</p><p>  You snap your head up at the sound of the door opening. The woman standing there looks maybe your age, with short dark hair not buzzed but cut short, in a uniform that looks like military surplus; you get a good look and then she's dragging you off Dave, twisting your arm up behind your back until you know there's only a few inches to go before a bone snaps.</p><p>  In this position, you can't even try to do what he told you to. You <i>need</i> to do what he told you to. You need to. You need to follow through so much that it hurts, you—</p><p>  "Look at me," Dave says, and you do. He's on his feet again, rubbing at his mouth with his sleeve, eyes on a point over your shoulder that you know has to be the HDB member's face. You feel her grip ease as she looks at him; what even <i>is</i> this kid. "Maria, you need to like, not look. I <i>really</i> don't want to fry your brain here."</p><p>  "What—"</p><p>  Orange eyes flick over to meet yours for a second. <i>Oh</i>—there's that force again, the one that had you so furious at him a moment ago. This time, all it does is make you close your eyes.</p><p>  Of course, once they <i>are</i> closed, he's lost that weird power over you, but you still don't open them. That's that famous common sense kicking in.</p><p>  "You're going to handcuff us," the boy with the orange eyes and the calm voice says, not to you but to the woman still holding you in a grip gone slack enough that you could twist free if you dared move. "Her first, then me. I'm going to cry, and you're going to look at me like you're worried and take us out of here. You're going to convince anyone who asks that this is what you're supposed to be doing, and if you can't convince them you're going to kill them."</p><p>  That's the thing that gets a reaction—her grip on you tightens again, enough that you actually struggle to get free—and she says, "No—" in a voice thick with...something. Effort, maybe.</p><p>  And Dave says, "<i>Look</i> at me," just as calmly as before. He goes silent as she makes a choked noise, then repeats himself. "Anyone you can't convince to let us pass, you kill. Understand?"</p><p>  You expect another forced <i>no</i>. Instead, you get silence for a moment. Then the woman pulls on your arm, kicks your feet out from under you, and shoves a knee into your back to hold you so she can get the cuffs on.</p>
<hr/><p>Dave does cry as he's cuffed, sobbing that spikes as your captor tightens the cuffs down around his thin wrists and tugs to be sure they're secure. He sobs as she puts a gun to your back and marches you up a flight of stairs, down at hall, and through a few rooms that look pretty much like any other safehouse; by the time you step out of the door, you're actually a bit annoyed at him. Fear of whatever this escape plan is getting discovered can only carry you so far, after all. By the time the woman shoves first you and then Dave into the backseat of a car that's trying much too hard to pass for a cop's undercover vehicle, you're about ready to tell him to <i>stop</i>, damn the possible consequences.</p><p>  As soon as she slams the door behind you, the tears stop flowing like all he has to do is flip a switch. "Put the key on the console," he says as the HDB member settles into the driver's seat. You glance over at him as she does what she's told, and catch the tail end of a grimace that looks more pained than all of that panicked crying did; then he shifts and brings his hands around to the front with one loop of the cuffs dangling free, rubbing at his newly freed wrist for a moment before reaching for the key. "Holy shit I hate doing that—get on the freeway, do the speed limit. Turn around, Maria?"</p><p>  Somehow you're just a <i>little</i> wary of putting your back to him, especially with how easily he has one of the people who captured you obeying his every command. Then again, everything he's done, he's done with direct eye contact, so you guess that's just your being stupid. "How'd you—"</p><p>  "Dislocated something in my hand—I can never remember what the fuck the joint's called, but I'm <i>not</i> spending like twenty minutes fiddling with that shit behind my back." There's a little <i> click</i>, a soft clatter, and the kid drops your handcuffs to the floor. "Here, get mine?"</p><p>  "Oh—here." You shake the numbness out of your fingers, then take the key to unlock the cuff still latched around Dave's wrist. His other hand has a ring of obvious bruises where he pulled to slide it out of the cuff; you're surprised that he didn't make a sound while he was doing it. "Where are we going?"</p><p>  "To the first gas station after we hit a state line." He shrugs and shoves a hand through his hair as you toss the second pair of cuffs down with the first, huffing out a breath. "I'll talk someone into letting me borrow their phone, call Hal, they'll come pick us up and take you home—"</p><p>  "Hal?"</p><p>  "Yeah, my bro." He makes a soft sound that you can't quite categorize—it's something distressed, sure, but you don't think you've ever heard anything like that rough little chirp come out of a human's mouth before—and rakes both hands through his hair, ruffling it up on the first pass through and smoothing it down on the second. "He <i>might</i> pick us up sooner, fuck—Jake'll be looking but everything with the HDB's been fuzzy lately, like they figured out how to jam scrying or some shit—god, what if he, he can't track a cell signal either, I can't—I want to be <i>home</i>, I w-want—"</p><p>  Dave's voice warbles and breaks on the last word, and something twinges in your chest—he's a kid, and he's close to genuine tears now. You touch his shoulder and do your best to not recoil as he twists to face you.</p><p>  That's harder than it sounds, honestly. His eyes are wide and glassy-bright with tears that do absolutely nothing to veil the power in them—you <i>know</i> that he could hurt you now, kill you even, without having to move to touch you. You might not even feel anything. It might be so fast you'd never know what happened.</p><p>  Then Dave lets out a squawk of a sob and dives at you, arms looping around your shoulders and face pressing against your chest. You wrap your arms around him and try not to get distracted by the fact that your hands find, well...feathers. A pair of wings that you know weren't there before, folded tight against his back. Angel? Harpy? Well, you can't ask again while he's like this. "You're okay, Dave—if you can get a phone <i>I</i> can get us a pickup, even if your brother can't. Or we take the car to a safehouse and go from there. I'll get you home, I promise."</p><p>  He makes a wet sound against your shirt, nodding without raising his head. Alright, then, you can wait—and you do, for maybe ten or fifteen minutes. Not very long, but long enough for you to wonder whether your wallet and phone are still on the passenger seat of your piece of shit minivan. Maybe whether the minivan is still where you left it too—it won't get towed, not when it's parked in front of a safehouse, but eventually one of the other hunters will realize you're late. Missing. Something like that. You're going to just not worry about it right now.</p><p>  Eventually, Dave's tears taper off to silent shaking, then to nothing. A minute after that, he pushes back from you, scrubbing at his face with his sleeve like a kid much younger than you assumed he was—eight or nine, not thirteen or fourteen. You think about asking for a concrete number, and decide against it—he already said he's not quite human, so any number would be either useless or a guesstimate, probably.</p><p>  "Sorry," he says, dropping his hands to his lap and giving his head a little shake. "It's been, uh...a while since I ended up without the others. Plus, like...there's <i>her.</i>"</p><p>  Even without his vague nod towards the driver's seat, you'd know exactly who he's talking about. The HDB woman doesn't even react, though. "Her. What did you even do to her?"</p><p>  "Uh." Dave blinks, opens his mouth, and closes it again for a second before he finishes his sentence. "Basically? Killed her. Like, not <i>really</i> killed her, but she's pretty much gone...I <i>hate</i> doing that."</p><p>  The last bit comes out softer, and he reaches up to sift his fingers through his hair as his eyes drop. The word <i>preening</i> comes to mind, in a purely avian sense—there's bird in him, obvious in more than the wings folded behind his back. There's more too, though, since he apparently destroyed a woman's personality with a minute of eye contact and a handful of words.</p><p>  His eyes flick up while you're watching him; you don't quite manage to keep yourself from looking away, breaking that eye contact. You still see the way he winces, though. "Look—"</p><p>  "Nah, it's okay." He shrugs and glances over your shoulder, through the window behind you, as you look back at his face again. "It's a cockatrice thing, right? I'd be wearing shades to make this a lil' less awkward, but like. Not like we had all that much time to find the shit those assholes took, right?"</p><p>  Which reminds you that you've lost three knives and a good taser. Damn. At least you were kitted for a hunters' meeting—no guns—and your phone and wallet are still in your car. Not needing to replace a driver's license again isn't much of a comfort, but it's <i>something.</i> "I'll lift you some sunglasses at the next gas station, I promise."</p><p>  One eyebrow goes up. You have to appreciate the control needed to pull off that specific expression; your guesstimate on his age goes back up to <i>teenager</i>. Not that you're going to bring that up at the moment. "Why do I feel like I just picked up another mom?"</p><p>  "I think I'll pass on that title—somehow I don't think I'd make a great mother to a cockatrice." Which...hm. You try to remember the entry for that particular supernatural being in the document that's been being circulated recently—sort of an unofficial and still not complete encyclopedia of what hunters might need to hunt—and come up mostly blank. It's not like you ever need to research how to counter cockatrice attacks—as far as you know, they're nearly mythical, almost never encountered in fieldwork. "I didn't think a cockatrice would look so human."</p><p>  "A cockatrice is the one with a half-human spirit." Dave shrugs and pulls his legs up on the seat, wrapping his arms around his knees. (No one in this car is wearing a seatbelt. You sort of wonder what would happen during a traffic stop.) "Now a basilisk? That's just a bitchy lil' lizard with feathers and laser eyes."</p><p>  "But you're not a basilisk."</p><p>   "No." He gives you a half-guilty smile, like he's been caught in something. "...and technically? My name's Dave<i>sprite</i>. I just...like getting to be Dave sometimes, y'know?"</p><p>  "That makes sense." The answer's near-automatic; you're struggling to picture the entry for cockatrices. Something about holding the spirit of a human as half their soul...a <i>dead</i> human. "Wait. You're not Dave because...?"</p><p>  "Dave is Dave." His shrug makes sense now; his wings complete the motion, make it look natural. "He'd probably be cool with it because, like, I can't exactly help it I'm a lil' bit him, but it's easier on everyone if we just stick with Davesprite at home."</p><p>  "And Dave would be..."</p><p>  "One of my brothers."</p><p>  First Hal and now Dave. "How many of those do you have?"</p><p>  "Uh. A lot." Dave—you think you'll just keep thinking of him as that for now—rakes a hand through his hair, huffing out a breath. "You know the Striders, right? Or like, you know <i> of</i> them?"</p><p>  "Everyone knows the Striders." You've only met one, though, and that was...well, you're going to just say it was a long time ago. You were a little girl and he was a grown man with blood on his shirt and more blood staining the spikes of his platinum hair reddish brown, fixing you with cold amber eyes just long enough to see you were still alive before pushing his shades up and moving on. From what you've heard, he was the worst of them.</p><p>  "Yeah. Cool." Dave grins for a second, bright and sincere and then gone. "That's me. I'd say I'm the baby, but that's probably Liv or Davepeta, depending on how she's feeling and whether they're at the safehouse or over at the Lejions'."</p><p>  "...and you're planning to call in <i>more</i> Striders."</p><p>  "Once it's safe to stop running? Yeah." He cocks his head to the side, considering something you can't even guess at right now for a moment before leaning forward, directing his next words to the front seat. "...you know what, stop at the next gas station. We need a different ride."</p><p>  There's no answer from the woman in the driver's seat, but the car merges into the right lane as Dave settles back beside you. At this point, you think you're going to just assume the kid knows what he's doing.</p>
<hr/><p>Dave tells the HDB woman (you really wish you knew her name, even if she would have killed you) to stay by the car, sends you inside to pay for the gas with money from the other woman's wallet, and promptly disappears. You decide to not worry about him; instead you do as he asked you, then take extra quick detours—first to the bathroom, and then down the aisles of snacks. If you're going to be the only adult, you guess you need to at least try to feed him, not that this is a great place to pick up the items to do that.</p><p>  You still get a couple things, including a cheap pair of sunglasses. Dave intercepts you as you walk out the door, blinking as you offer that last purchase to him. "Holy shit, you actually grabbed them."</p><p>  "Well, you <i>did</i> say you needed them..."</p><p>  "Yeah, but it's still nice." He chirps softly as he settles them onto his nose, hooking his arm around yours so he can lead you away from the fuel pumps and around the building to parking; it's a very birdy sound. "Yeah, <i>much</i> better...c'mon, I got us a Hummer."</p><p>  "You—what?" He can't possibly mean what you think he means...except he does. It's a hulking, vibrantly red vehicle with tinted windows and a custom plate with the owner's initials; you can't help but stop in your tracks as you process that yes, he's managed to acquire <i>that</i>. The HDB member's already in the driver's seat, staring blankly out the windshield. "Dave..."</p><p>  "Yeah, yeah, I know, not low profile, but you know what?" The kid smothers a laugh and pulls harder on your arm, tugging until you remember that you need to get in that behemoth. "Nobody's gonna expect high profile. Plus this gets us looked at and noticed instead of quietly run off the road and executed in a ditch."</p><p>  You guess he has a point. That doesn't stop you from doubting the wisdom of your actions even as you boost him up into the backseat and then climb up yourself—and climb is very much and accurate description. This model of car is just <i>stupid</i>. "Did you steal a phone too?"</p><p>  "I <i>borrowed</i> a phone. Had to give that back already." Dave settles in behind the driver's seat, fluffing out his wingfeathers (his hair puffs up too, you see, although not quite as noticeably) and beginning the job of smoothing them into place again. "Even if it's got lojack and the dude snaps out of what I put him in fast enough—he thinks he had engine shit and got a shitty ride from a rental place—a car's harder to track in real time. Phones are <i>easy</i>, and it's hard to keep someone from realizing they don't actually have it anymore."</p><p>  "Ah." So you won't be checking in with your group yet. Oh, well—either they've figured out you're missing yet, or they haven't. Worst case scenario is you get to walk in on your own memorial service, and wouldn't <i>that</i> be an experience. "Did you get in touch with—"</p><p>  "Hal, yeah." His head cocks to the side as you pass him the bag of snacks; normally you'd worry about eating in a car so new it still smells like dealership clip-on air freshener, but this is a special case. "Oh shit, krispie treats—but yeah, we're getting over the state line just in case and he'll meet us. I guess we could just drive home, but..."</p><p>  "It's a stolen car."</p><p>  "Not so much that as <i>her.</i>" Dave rips a wrapper open, takes a bite of marshmallow and puffed rice, and gestures at the front seat with the other half of the treat. "Like, we're kind of on a time limit, and <i>I</i> can't hide a body."</p><p>  You can't either, not without resources and backup that you don't have right now, and you somehow don't think hauling a fresh corpse around would work out too well. Besides, this way the kid gets back to the people who should be in charge of him faster; it's safer for everyone. "So we just have a few hours on the road, and it's over. Simple."</p><p>  "Uh-huh. Hell of a lot easier than last time." He shrugs and stuffs the rest of the treat into his mouth, swallowing and licking any stickiness off his fingers before scooting across the seat, closer to you. "If you don't want me on you while I take a nap, tell me now."</p><p>  Aw. That's cute. "No, I think I'm fine with it. C'mon, Dave."</p>
<hr/><p>You guess you doze too, after awhile—not quite sleeping but that blurry twilight state where time stops meaning anything and all sensory input bleeds together into one calmingly vague mass. To anyone looking, you'd probably <i>look</i> asleep; you're the only one who cares to draw the line.</p><p>  It's a state that can only be achieved in a moving vehicle, and you lose you grip on it when the engine goes from the sleek hum of highway speeds to the growl of a stationary idle. It's not like you snap out of it, though; it's a few minutes before you remember how to raise your head, blink until your eyes focus and shake the drowsiness away.</p><p>  Your neck hurts. The woman in the front seat is still but not <i>dead</i> still; you almost ask here where this is before coming to your senses. Instead, you look out the window and see...well, a parking lot. Not much to go on there; parking lots are the same from one end of the country to the other, and probably the same in most other countries as well.</p><p>  Not that you're anywhere but in one of the states that border Louisiana. Texas, if you had to guess, although you suppose Arkansas isn't out of the realm of possibility. Instead of thinking on that any longer you put a hand on Dave's shoulder,   carefully nudging the soft weight of a folded wing aside. "Wake up, kiddo. I think we're here."</p><p>  "Mmnph." That comes out muffled and indecipherable; after a moment he rolls over, almost going off the seat before you get a handful of his shirt and pull him back up. Instead of struggling he goes limp, blinking up at you—the shades you bought are in the cupholder on the other side of the seat. "We're here?"</p><p>  "I...think so? Unless she decided to take us somewhere else—"</p><p>  "She can't decide anything anymore." That's matter-of-fact, but he still grimaces as he gets up to his knees on the seat and scoops up his shades, settling them in place and moving to the other window to frown out at the empty parking lot. "Huh. Remind me to yell at Hal for picking the creepiest fucking places to come get me from. This isn't a weapons deal or whatever the fuck, we could have gone somewhere that  <i>hasn't</i> been empty for like, longer than I've been alive—"</p><p>  There's just something in his voice. Not a tremor—you don't think he's far enough gone for that—but <i>something</i>. Just fear, maybe, worry or anxiety or whatever the word is. Something unpleasant for the poor kid, anyway. "Dave."<br/>
His mouth snaps shut, and he looks at you. No hint of any emotion on his face, either. "What?"</p><p>  "He's coming, okay? Deep breaths."</p><p>  "That just means I hyperventilate," he grumbles, but he does scoot back across the seat to curl against your side, wings coming up to wrap around himself as you put an arm around him. "Hal's always on time—this shit isn't good."</p><p>  Ah. So that's it. "So we got here first. Nobody can get travel times perfectly right."</p><p>  "Hal can get pretty damn close." There's an amazing amount of stubbornness in those six words; you're not going to argue. "What if—"</p><p>  "We're not doing that." This isn't a planning session, where missing a possibility gets hunters killed. There's nothing to be gained from spinning out worst case scenarios, and besides, another vehicle just pulled into the parking lot—a pickup truck in need of a paint job to cover battered maroon, a truck that barely rolls to a halt before the driver's-side door swings open and a just <i>barely</i> remembered man steps out. "Hey—look."</p><p>  Dave looks. Dave makes a strangled, joyful sound, grabbing for the door handle and nearly tumbling out into concrete, and Dave launches himself at his Hal almost before he's clear of the stupid red Hummer. The man catches him, thank god, somehow not losing his balance, and wraps him up in a hug that has both the kid's feet off the ground, wings spread to keep them from being crushed and face buried in Hal's shoulder as Hal presses his own face into pale ginger hair that's almost feathers, murmuring words you can't quite head as you exit the car just a bit more slowly. He might be sobbing. They <i>both</i> might be sobbing.</p><p>  ...well. You guess you should give them space...but as you step back Hal looks up for a moment, his eyes meeting yours. (Somehow you didn't expect anything so piercingly, purely <i>red.</i>) He mouths <i>thank you,</i> and something that might be <i>wait</i>, and shifts to support Dave with one hand for a moment. The other one dips into a pocket and extracts a cellphone, tossing it to you in one fluid motion.</p><p>  Thank everything that's holy that you catch it. The screen lights up with a text as you fumble for the on button; the messenger app's already open when you swipe, showing a message that seems to be for you.</p><p>
  <span class="kankri">AI: I'll get everything dealt with and start the process of getting you home in a few minutes, I promise. Davesprite needs this first, though, and so do I.</span>
</p><p>  You think you understand that. Instead of sending a text back—Hal's still holding Davesprite, after all, and you're not sure how he'd receive it (or how he sent this one)—you take a few steps towards the front of the car and lean against it, typing in a number you have memorized. Time to destroy your dreams of coming home to crash your own memorial.</p><p>  Then again, you guess that's for the best.</p>
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